


The Candle At Both Ends

by isnt (noneedforhystereks)



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Angst, Bisexual Sylvain Jose Gautier, Gay Felix Hugo Fraldarius, Getting Back Together, M/M, Minor Sylvain Jose Gautier/Others, Rehabilitation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:27:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27834523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noneedforhystereks/pseuds/isnt
Summary: Rolling Stone, July 2020: Resurrected – The Second Coming of Sylvain GautierDead-Sylvain, the Sylvain of old, was equal parts rock royalty and Hollywood heartthrob. Smug and chockful of charisma, the then 19-year old seemed pre-destined for cover pages. Born to legendary music producer, Aslynn Gautier, and Russian prima ballerina, Serynne Gilead-Gautier: there was no option but greatness. And, boy, had he delivered. His band, AZRE, were burgeoning Alt darlings and staples on every festival lineup. His acting debut, A24's stunning The Forgotten, garnered him success at the box office and with the indie arthouse crowd. In 2015, everything was coming up Sylvain.But underneath the gilded surface of Planet Sylvain, was a star set to implode. Six weeks after AZRE’s now-infamous performance at the 2015 Governors Ball, he disappeared.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 6
Kudos: 38





	1. Chapter 1

_Rolling Stone, July 2020: Resurrected – The Second Coming of Sylvain Gautier_

“You know, I always imagined what [Rolling Stone] would write about me if I’d died.”

Sylvain Gautier is an expert at making a memorable first impression. Leading me through the backyard of his Silver Lake home to his terrace, he is barefoot and wearing a gauzy, flower-print robe over jeans. Just jeans. He’s charming: affable and just the right amount of self-deprecating in equal turns. It’s very apparent he has put an extraordinary amount of thought into this hypothetical obituary.

“I, uh— actually, I know more about what I’d want the ‘In Memoriam’ to say than this...thing.”

This “thing” he’s referring to is his impending July cover of Rolling Stone. A strange notion for a certifiable rockstar, who is no stranger to the pages of this magazine. This was not the Sylvain Gautier of old.

“Maybe this issue will be an ‘In Memoriam’ after all,” he says, laughing. “That guy’s fucking dead.”

Dead-Sylvain, the Sylvain of old, was equal parts rock royalty and Hollywood heartthrob. Smug and chockful of charisma, the then 19-year old seemed pre-destined for cover pages. Born to legendary music producer, Aslynn Gautier, and Russian prima ballerina, Serynne Gilead-Gautier: there was no option but greatness. And, boy, had he delivered. His band, AZRE, were burgeoning Alt darlings and staples on every festival lineup. His acting debut, A24's stunning _The Forgotten_ , garnered him success at the box office and with the indie arthouse crowd. In 2015, everything was coming up Sylvain.

But underneath the gilded surface of Planet Sylvain, was a star set to implode. Six weeks after AZRE’s now-infamous performance at the 2015 Governors Ball, he disappeared.

“It’s not something…I don’t want to glamourize that shit,” he tells me over his favorite lunch of cigarettes and tea, meticulously prepared at a garden table set for two. “Because I was in a miserable, fucked-up place. I'd gone through, arguably, the worst fucking break up of my life. I was working hard and I was also living hard. I didn’t know if I was going to live to see 21 before I ended up choking on my own fucking vomit.”

It’s difficult to reconcile the warmth of the young man in front of me— pouring me oolong from a butterfly teapot. “It’s Mikasa,” he stage whispers, nodding to the tea set, “I stole it from an ex-girlfriend”— with the morbid reality of his past.

“I had built this…whole persona, right, that was at its core meant to disguise the fact that I was gonna [ _sic_ ] fucking kill myself. I black out at a Vanity Fair Oscars party: classic degenerate Sylvain. I overdose on fucking coke at Coachella: man, Sylvain knows how to fuckin’ party. And it was, like, my _alibi_. No one gives a life vest to someone who knows how to make drowning look like dancing.”

The life vest, it turns out, came after the waves had crashed over him. A hometown friend took the stumbling, slurring mess of a performance in New York as a cry for help. And forced him to the surface. He won’t tell me the friend’s name, but he tells me that they saved his life. Or, at least, ushered him into a new one.

“I don’t remember the trip from GovBall to LA, but I do remember thinking I was dead. I _felt_ dead. It’s going to sound like bullshit, but that whole light at the end of the tunnel? I saw it. Like a lighthouse,” he says, face serious. He looks older than his years and I believe he believes he died that day in June. “And I was just so tired of drowning, man. Whatever it is that brought me back—I just had to do a better job of living after that.”

Now, five years later, promises to be a new dawn for the newly 24-year-old Los Angeles transplant. Back with a new music project, a new record label, and his newfound sobriety: Sylvain 2.0 is a whole new animal. He called his new solo project, fittingly, Ruins.

Not everything in his arsenal is shiny and new, however. There was a familiar face on stage at the album release show at the Palladium last Saturday. Ingrid Galatea, his former bandmate, is Ruins’ touring bassist and Sylvain’s current songwriting partner. There was much speculation about Galatea’s split from AZRE earlier this year, as she was noticeably missing from the band’s lineup on their winter tour. Neither AZRE nor Galatea confirmed the split at the time. AZRE has since moved on with new baby-faced bassist and vocalist Ashe Duran, following Galatea’s exit. And now, it appears Sylvain has gained custody of Galatea in the continuing divorce (she shares a home with Sylvain, although she is absent during our interview, and her longtime partner, Mittelfrank Talent CEO, Dorothea Arnault).

For all that his departure was the talk of every gossip site and music journal alike in 2015, Sylvain won’t say much about his former band. He doesn’t address the tumultuous spectacle that has been AZRE’s downfall and comeback. He stumbles through a cordial acknowledgment of their latest album. Gautier has long since been replaced by guitar-legend Dedue Molinaro, whom you might recognize from his past stints in East Coast hardcore acts like Dxscxr and SilverxSnow. He politely compliments Molinaro’s contributions to AZRE’s live concert experience. He’s noticeably mum on former bandmates Dimitri Blaiddyd and Felix Fraldarius. When Sylvain crashed and burned, did his friends get caught in the flames? Is an AZRE reunion ruled out?

“I owe a lot of all this to them,” he admits. “But I think there are too many ghosts in New York, mine included.”

Ruins' new album, _Scorched_ , debuted at number three on the Billboard 200 and number one on the Billboard Rock charts [ _read Rolling Stone’s review of ‘Scorched’ on page 94]_. I ask him if the album name is referring to his bridges with his old bandmates, or maybe even the ashes of the old Sylvain.

“You know the best part of burning all your bridges?” Sylvain lights another cigarette and grins at me. “You have to learn to swim.”


	2. Chapter One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ingrid attempts to offer an olive branch, weeks before Ruins starts their tour in New York. Sylvain decides to tag along. For fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title inspired by 'First Fig' by Edna St. Vincent Millay and also 'First' by Cold War Kids, which has been the go-to song for writing this fic.

Contrary to popular belief, Sylvain hates break-up songs: listening to them feels too much like his old brand of masochism, while writing them has always invited the wrong kind of self-reflection. It’s easy to marinate in self-flagellation when you’re thinking of every way you fucked up someone’s life, or how they fucked _you_ up. Even for him, there are some exes, some places inside his head, he just won’t touch. Not even to cash in on the trauma. Now that he can’t hide behind a writing team or someone else’s voice, he’s even less comfortable with the idea.

So, of course, the lead single for his debut solo album is a break-up song. _The_ break-up song. Dorothea thinks it’s great marketing, Ingrid just thinks it has the best hook. Sylvain thinks it’s like holding up a magnifying glass to the new and shiny veneer he’s built around himself in the last several months. Granted, there was a slew of them on the record, but something about this _one_ feels the most telling. Like he might as well have named it, ‘Felix Fraldarius Dumped Me and I Will Never, Ever Be Over It’ for how much he spells it all out. Then again, it’s not like anyone would ever put him and Felix together that way. Not outside the immediate epicenter of that disaster, anyway.

Honestly, the song, 'Other Side', hadn’t even been meant for the album. More of a therapy exercise than anything. He'd been in a Richard Siken phase, holed up in his house. If Sylvain could go back in time to that Tuesday night in November, he’d delete the track off his stupid external hard drive. As soon as Ingrid had found it, he’d known there was no way she’d let him keep it off the album. 

Which is to say, Sylvain is not stoked.

That song is playing overhead at this moment, in a gas station mini-mart by the airport. Here he is, buying a fucking Diet Coke and two packs of Camel menthols, while a song about the devastating end of his relationship plays over the tinny speakers. _Maybe it’s a sign_ , he thinks. The teenager at the register is humming along and Sylvain can see an Ruins button on her sweatshirt, next to a tag that reads 'AMY'. And because he can't help himself, he opens his big mouth. "You a fan?" he nods to the speakers above them.

"Oh, for sure. I was super into AZRE in high school," she nods along to the song. "I think Sylvain was, like, the best writer in the group. His new album is so good. I _love_ this song."

Sylvain wonders if she’d still be nodding to the beat if she knew that break up almost killed him. Probably. It’s a good song. 

"Plus have you heard the new AZRE album? All these songs about each other, it's been better drama than anything on TV." Oh, yikes. That's his cue to go.

Back in the rental car, Ingrid has the same radio station playing. She rolls her eyes when he tries to turn it off, slaps at his hand. “I don’t know why you get like this,” she settles for turning the volume knob down since she’s not a complete asshole. “You’ve had songs about rehab, and drugs, and—I don’t know— _sex_ on the radio. You’ve had songs about relationships before.”

Not this relationship, Sylvain thinks. “You know why,” and he knows she does. This is probably just Ingrid’s way of trying to get him to feel better about it, but he doesn't want to feel better about it yet. In reality, there are some hurts that Sylvain (even post-therapy Sylvain) isn’t ready to face. Maybe sensing the melancholy Sylvain is stewing in, Ingrid hooks her phone up to the speakers with a sigh. Sylvain’s relief is short-lived when the first song comes on.

“Jesus, Ingrid. Give me a fucking break.”

Ingrid shrugs, tapping on the middle console. “Too bad. It’s my favorite song off the new album. You think they’ll play it?”

“Oh, they’ll play it. My money’s on it being the new single. It’s a fucking earworm, man.” Sylvain knows AZRE will have to, even if they hated it. He knows it’s one of the most played songs on Spotify. Not that he’s checked or anything.

“And you knooooow, there’s no meee without youuuuuu,” she sings, right in his ear. It gets him to laugh, which he figures is the point. He sings with her, if just to make Ingrid smile. “Just like there’s no skyyyy without bluuuuue, no niiiight without moooon.” It’s catchy, he’ll give her that.

The album plays on while they’re stuck in traffic in Midtown, when Ingrid abruptly disconnects her phone.

“Just for the record: I think this is a bad idea,” she tells him. Sylvain glances over at her and she’s biting her nails again, going to town on them as she stares out the window. “I think, not that you’ve asked me, this is impulsive and it’s going to be a shitshow when he finds out we’re there.”

True.

“While I appreciate your vote of confidence, I think this is, like, the worst time to tell me,” Sylvain nods at the tunnel, the cars crawling by them. “Considering we’re about, uh, 10 minutes from the hotel.”

Ingrid likes being in control. She likes being responsible and realistic and methodical. She’s a goddamned _Capricorn_. When he showed up at the airport with her, bags packed, Sylvain knows she wanted to kill him. As per usual, Ingrid had a plan and Sylvain decided to torch it on impulse. It’s not his fault, he’s a Gemini. “I had no problem coming by myself. _You_ invited _yourself_ and if this tanks, I just want you to remember that. I do appreciate you wanting to play referee, just like the old days, but this is the worst time to be nostalgic.”

Nostalgia isn’t the only reason Sylvain had tagged along. He was playing here in two weeks and he’d been in pieces about it since Ignatz had emailed him the finalized tour dates. In more ways than one, he just wanted to tear the band-aid off.

“Relax, it’s going to be fine. No one will even notice I’m there.”

* * *

“This is such a bad idea,” Ingrid says for the hundredth time since they got out of the taxi on 41st. She’s paranoid and irritated, chewing on her bottom lip. Her eyes keep darting around them. “This is _such_ a _shitty_ idea.” She’s still following, though, pulling her hood over tighter around her face. Sylvain ignores her, just like he had the first 99 times.

“Syl _vain_ ,” Ingrid grits, teeth clenched. “Are you listening to me?”

They cross the street on 35th, heading towards the back entrance of the venue. And now they can hear the murmurs of the line out front, the chatter of conversation and sounds of people walking down the street. There’s the faint sound of applause, someone on the mic addressing the crowd. Sylvain glances around himself, feeling eyes on the back of his head, but there’s no one else outside.

"Syl—”

“Yeah, I know,” he says, grunts as he pulls open the back door. They get in line, slipping into the 10 or so people waiting to get into the restricted VIP rooms of the ballroom. Sylvain keeps his head up but leaves his sunglasses on. Only douches wear sunglasses inside, at _night_ , but he’d rather look like an asshole than himself. He doesn’t let his gaze stay on anyone’s face longer than a second or so. This is complicated enough without some influencer or journalist recognizing him. “But you got out of the taxi and walked six blocks with me, so…I don’t know why you keep yelling at me. You could have tattled on me to Dorothea by now, but you haven’t.”

Ingrid groans.

“I’m not even supposed to be on this fucking coast, let alone Manhattan,” Ingrid mutters. The venue security recognizes Ingrid and nervously let her into the building. The big, stocky guy wearing a headpiece does a double-take when he sees Sylvain but doesn’t immediately throw him out, so. Little victories.

He follows Ingrid down the hall until they reach the door leading side-stage, joining the throng of people watching the techs set up. They missed the opener, some emo revival band from Long Island. From the looks of things, they could not have cut it any closer. The liquid, molten anxiety that’s been brewing in Sylvain’s stomach freezes solid when he sees a familiar head of black hair walk past. There’s no one stupid enough to even approach the drum riser, Sylvain knows, so it’s gotta be him. He jerks back, facing Ingrid and back to center stage. Guilt gathers in his throat, dries his mouth. Maybe this was a mistake, maybe he should’ve fucking listened to Ingrid for once.

“I think I’m gonna throw up.”

Ingrid punches him.

Before Sylvain can whine about it, the steady beat of the kickdrum rings out and backing music starts to play. The lights dim. The crowd starts to clap in time with the song, start to chant. It’s disorienting, bringing back fractured pockets of memories. Too full of shards. Sylvain, suddenly, doesn’t know what to do with his hands, his body. The techs rush off the stage, as more familiar faces walk out. Crazily enough, Sylvain has the sudden instinct to join them. Someone bumps into him, twists around to apologize. The kid has a mop of grey hair and looks twelve; he puts his hand out, mouths ‘sorry’ and jogs out. _At least the new kid is nice enough_. He tells Ingrid this, but she’s not paying attention- her eyes trained forward. Fuck, he can’t even bring himself to look.

“Hello, Hammerstein,” the frontman says into the mic. He absently picks a few notes on his guitar, readjusts the strap it swings on. The crowd goes nuts. “It’s been a while. We’ve been away for a bit, but it’s so nice to be back here with you. I’m so glad you could make it out to spend some time with us this evening.”

_Don’t look, don’t look._

“My name is Dimitri—,” the crowd drowns out the last bit, but he and Ingrid both have this memorized by now. “We are AZRE and we have some songs to play for you tonight.”

* * *

When Sylvain was fifteen, he’d convinced Felix and Dimitri into sneaking out of their dorm at midnight. He’d been sneaking out of their room for the last two weeks, practicing. That night, he finally felt confident enough to let them in on it. Creeping into the hallway and down the stairs, he’d led them out. God, he’d felt so fucking cool. The three of them, euphoric in that endless way inherent to childhood, tiptoed past the main hall and into the inky, winter night. Halfway through the activities field, Felix had started to freak out. Sylvain had hefted him onto his back and carried him the rest of the way, laughing as Felix kicked and whisper-yelled obscenities at him. He still remembers the comforting warmth of him, the weight of him on his back and his legs around his waist. How he’d gripped his shins in his hands and felt Felix shiver. Sylvain’s hands burned with the ghost of him.

There’s an echo of that feeling, now, as Sylvain watches AZRE make their way through the setlist. There are just as many strangers onstage as there are old friends. Just as many ghosts.

Three songs in and he can finally watch Dimitri at the mic, the same guitar around his neck that he’s played for almost ten years now. He wears an eyepatch now and, honestly, Sylvain thinks it looks badass. Gives him that rockstar-bravado Dimitri had always been too shy to lean into before. He seems untouchable now, self-assured in a way Sylvain never expected.

 _Without_ runs out to be the third song they play, much to Ingrid’s disbelief and the crowd’s enthusiastic approval. Sylvain can see the conflicting feelings playing out on Ingrid’s face. Pride and frustration warring in the wideness of her eyes and the downturned set of her lips. He can relate to the bitter satisfaction, watching faces in the crowd sing along and the new kid belting out her lyrics into the mic.

Five songs in and his gaze turns to the riser, the figure crashing away at the drums. Sylvain drinks in Felix and catalogs every difference he can find. God, he could watch him forever. There’s so much new here, but in the end, it’s the same old Felix. Running his fingertips over each other, Sylvain swears he can feel cold skin and goosebumps. The way his hair felt when he’d run his hands—

Felix, right on cue, glances over at the wings and seems to freeze for a split-second. Sylvain can’t look away from the panic broadcasted on Felix’s face. Five years flash in a blink of an eye and Sylvain is nineteen and devastated all over again. There’s a brief gap where they make eye contact and then the song ends and Felix breaks first, wiping his face with a towel and shifting on his seat.

Ingrid glances up at Sylvain; he can feel her watching him for a reaction. There’s nothing to say, really. What do you say to the face behind every mistake, every missed chance, every burned bridge?

Felix doesn’t look anywhere but forward for the rest of the show and Sylvain burns in place.

* * *

If Ingrid had a dollar for every time she’d said ‘I told you so’, she could retire tomorrow. Hell, if she had a dollar for every time she’d told _Sylvain_ , ‘I told you so’ she could probably _still_ retire tomorrow. Right now, she’d have one dollar.

After the show, they’d met the band in the green room. The whole point of this stupid trip was for Ingrid to clear the air before getting swept up in a tour with Ruins and the inevitable crossed paths of the upcoming festival season. She hadn’t left on the best of terms, but they were all working professionals. They could let the dust settle and move forward, if anything as awkward acquaintances. She didn’t get but one word in before Felix shot out of the room, slamming the door. Typical. And then Sylvain ran out after him. Also typical. Now, there’s a shitshow happening on the other side of the door and everyone in the green room is trying their damnedest to act like it’s not happening. Stage breakdown is still going on, there are various roadies and techs running around, and everyone is painstakingly avoiding the mess in the lounge of Hammerstein Ballroom.

Ashe clears his throat, offers Ingrid a beer for the second time. She grabs it and cracks it open with her teeth, swigs from it immediately. Dedue tips his drink at her in solidarity. There’s not much to be said between any of them, in all honesty.

“It’s nice to, uh, meet you finally,” Ashe says, eyes wide as the yelling escalates for a moment. Dimitri stands and starts to pace the length of the room again. Ingrid cranes her neck around him every time he walks between her and Ashe. “Nice of you to make it out tonight. Means a lot—”

Dimitri stops in front of Ingrid, facing her this time.

“How’s California?”

Ingrid rolls her eyes, turns away to look at the door. Gives up the guise of not eavesdropping on the disaster taking place outside it.

“Look, I’m not trying to stir the pot. When I left, I should’ve broached contract reneg with you and Felix like grown-ups. Instead, I ran and it was shitty. I just wanted to apologize. It was never my intention to take anyone’s side- I just needed to get away from here. Sylvain just so happened to be the escape route.”

It’s surprising when Dedue, stands, steps over to her. “You don’t owe me anything, but I appreciate the gesture. You did leave us high and dry before the album even finished mixing. It sucked.” Oh, she bets it did. She didn’t even finish laying down tracks with them; there are six songs on the album without her. More than anything, she regrets not sticking it through for that. She’s never given up on anything like this before. “I admire that you’re here taking your lumps.”

“But did you have to, uh, bring Sylvain?” Ashe nervously glances over as the voices outside go up in pitch, almost in response.

“I never would’ve asked him to come. He literally showed up at the airport and boarded first class before me. Asshole.”

Dimitri nods, more to himself than in response. Resumes pacing. Back and forth he goes, boots treading on the carpet. Ingrid clenches her jaw, defensive and more than a little hurt.

“It’s nothing personal, Dimitri. You have to know that.”

This is the wrong thing to say. Well, it’s the right thing. But Ingrid figures, maybe, it’s wrong to say it now, while the seams between all of them finally come undone.

Dimitri palms his face, “Tell that to Felix,” he gestures at the door. Back and forth he paces, like a pendulum, between her and the people who had replaced her and Sylvain.

There was a time when her, Felix, Dimitri, and Sylvain had pooled their money together and bought a beat up, black AstroVan to follow their stupid little dreams. A time when it was the four of them against the whole world, playing backyards and house shows for free pizza and a floor to sleep on. An eternal summer, it felt like, spent writing songs and being in love with the music. There was a time, way back when, Ingrid could freefall and know there would be hands to catch her. She wishes she could pinpoint when those hands had started to waver. Fuck, she was tired of the freefall.

Maybe it is personal, Ingrid admits. Maybe it’s impossible to separate the hurt from the relief.

* * *

Five years is a hell of a fucking long time to go under the radar. Before the summer of 2015, the longest stint Sylvain had ever spent in therapy was six months. Rehab, two weeks. The facility had been a real swanky place, swathed in white and glass. More amenities than doctors, really: Olympic-sized pool, private movie theater, rotating staff of private chefs. Rehab also had a host of hidden vices to anyone with enough cash and desperation, both of which 18-year old Sylvain had in spades. It feels wrong to regret all the work he’s put in these last few years, but in the wake of the absolute shitshow this trip has become…maybe Sylvain should have just fucking kept his vices. Then, maybe he could’ve kept Felix too.

“I am literally begging you to go in there and hear her out,” he’s trying to reason with Felix. But the more he tries to talk Felix off the ledge, the more Felix explodes- which is new for him. Felix has never really been the explosive type, usually more of a cold shoulder or bitchy disdain type. But this is all he has left for Sylvain. “Fuck me, just give Ingrid like five minutes.”

“There is nothing she could say that I am interested in hearing.”

“For fuck’s sake, Felix, she’s your friend. You owe it to her—”

“I _owe_ it to her? You want to talk about debts, to _me_?!”

Ah. A miscalculation on his part, Sylvain thinks. More of a skid off a mountain than a misstep. “If you could give me a fucking second to expl—"

“I don’t give a fuck what you have to say, either, Sylvain,” Felix shakes with the force of it, teeth clenched and body strung up, tight as a bow. “This is the lowest fucking thing, even for you.”

Back when he was younger and stupider and hellbent on annihilating himself, Sylvain would’ve taken that as a challenge. The lowest he could sink? Hardly. Bare minimum, he would’ve argued the point. But there’s more on the line here than getting back at Felix. “Felix,” he tries. “I swear to God, okay? I swear on my fucking mother’s grave: I didn’t ask Ingrid to leave or to back out of the contract. I hadn’t heard from her until my agent put us into contact. She was already in LA by then. There’s no greater conspiracy here. Please, I’m a lot of things but I’m not fucking cruel. Not like that. You know me.”

Felix scoffs, arms wrapping around his middle and Sylvain recognizes that he’s more hurt than angry. But Felix is worse at being vulnerable than even him. It’s easier to be angry. Lashing out feels more reliable, in a way; feels safer than trying to tell someone, _hey, you fucking hurt me and it hasn’t stopped hurting._

“Know you? Sylvain, I haven’t seen you in half a decade. I haven’t heard a word from you,” which isn’t necessarily true, strictly speaking. He’d had his PA reach out to break his contract, but Sylvain, himself, had texted to let Felix know he’d cleared out the Tribeca apartment. Though, Sylvain knows better than to point that out now. “You want to talk about debts, Sylvain, what about what you owe us? Every single person in that room. What about what you owe me?”

Sylvain slumps a little, turns away to lean against the wall. “I’m sorry,” he says, because he should and because he doesn’t know what else to say. “You’re right, it’s not my place to lecture you. I just—want to fix this for you guys, is all. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen, honest.”

When he’d first landed in LA, Sylvain had taken an Uber straight to the beach. The water had been freezing, the beachfront empty except for a few, lone locals jogging by. He’d sat on the cold, wet sand and thought about the ocean. And swimming. About how long it would take to swim from there to Boston. To drive. To walk. If there were enough miles between him and the empty apartment he’d left behind. Next thing he knew, he’d been back at the hotel, writing it all down. From there, he’d kept writing and playing. Then, an album formed and the whirlwind had him picked up and thrown him towards Mittelfrank. AZRE had been the last thing on his mind, sabotage even further down the list.

“This isn’t about Ingrid: she’s just the last fucking straw. This is about how you let me down and then you fucking _left_ me. Now that I’ve finally picked up the pieces, you want me to hold Ingrid’s hand while we act like she didn’t flips us upside down _again_ ,” it’s almost like he can’t get the word out of his mouth fast enough, “The fucking selfishness of it all. Fuck you guys.”

“She’s trying to apologize. _I’m_ trying to apologize.”

Felix strides over to him, eyes dark in his pale face. He looks like he could use two full days of sleep, maybe longer. There’s a pallid sheen on his face that Sylvain recognizes intimately, remembers seeing when he’d stare at his own reflection in the mirror.

“Felix, are you fucking high?”

The thing about drowning, Sylvain thinks, is that it’s not the sinking that kills you. Not the freezing chill of the waters around you or the crushing pressure over your head. It’s the breath you take when your body fails you. He knows the answer before the words even leave his mouth. He thinks he’s prepared for it, but he feels the air caught in his throat anyway. He sinks like a stone in water, Felix glaring down at him from the surface.

“Are you going to scold me about that, too?” Like Sylvain has the audacity to look down on him for showing up to play, high off his ass. Given that Sylvain has spent the last five years trying to expel every substance, every person he let into his body just to poison himself- maybe he doesn’t have that right. “Sylvain Gautier’s going to stand on his new pedestal and lecture the little people on the dangers of substance abuse.”

This is quickly spiraling into something Sylvain is not ready to face. “Jesus, I’m not having this conversation with you. I came here to apologize, so I’m going to do that and then fuck off out of here. Five years ago, it was never about leaving. It was about fucking surviving,” Felix mutters something that sounds like _typical_ under his breath, but Sylvain keeps going. “I’m sorry I scared you. And I’m sorry that I was an asshole about it. Dimitri was right, Rodrigue was right. I had a fucking problem and I should’ve asked for help. Everything about how I was living: it was fucked up. I think…I think I was trying to kill myself. And I should have thought about how much that would weigh on the people who loved me. On you.”

This is what Sylvain should’ve led with, the first thing that should’ve come out of his mouth in the green room. “I’m not expecting anything. I just needed you all to hear it. If you think Ingrid dropping out of the album, the tour, the band has anything to do with me- it doesn’t. She was just trying to survive too.”

Felix is silent, pupils huge in his face, now that Sylvain is looking for it. Christ, he hopes he gets home safe. Even though it’s not his job to worry about that anymore. When he makes no move to respond, Sylvain leaves him in the empty room, heading back to collect Ingrid and get the fuck out of here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed the shitshow! I'm hoping to cap this at about 6 chapters, maybe less. As usual, this was not beta'd.
> 
> See ya next Sunday!

**Author's Note:**

> I'm hoping to post this weekly, on Sundays. This is my first fic for FE3H and if it's not obvious, I really love Sylvain Jose Gautier. This was not beta'd, but I chugged a bunch of Coke Zero and here we are.
> 
> Any similarities to real band drama is TOTALLY coincidental, this is based on like 5 different band break ups LMAO


End file.
